Look at ’em, staring at me while I sit at this eternal red light, where eternal is roughly one minute and 13 seconds. They’re all perfect and happy and … not obese. Where do they come from? Why do they exist? Where in the hell do you purchase them? The most logical explanation would be from an auto parts store or a flea market, but I’m going to guess that perhaps some families hand craft them on “family fun night” with x-acto knives and some silly sticker stencils while drinking Sprite and eating those soft white cookies with the frosting on top, laughing and giggling and hugging.

We are bombarded by these monstrosities of suburbanite’ish absurdity on a daily basis (on commutes, passing a church, mall parking lots). It’s as if these horrid decals just appear on cars out of nowhere. Who are applying these things? Have you ever seen somebody applying Mom, Dad, Sis, Slugger and the g’damn family dog to the back window of their minivan? No you haven’t. Nobody has. And if you are one of the unfortunates who have witnessed it, then shame on you for not immediately slapping Dad in the back of the head and yelling “Good God man! Look what you’re doing!”. We don’t see these being applied in the light of day because they’re done in back alleys at dusk, and inside garages of shame with one’s self worth slowly melting away like a soft serve in the hands of a 3 year old during summer.

The one’s that make absolutely no sense are the sticker families with the children’s name on them. “Hey, thanks” says the child abductor who now knows the age, rank, and serial number of each child he/she plans on luring into a Van Full of Candy, not to mention the dog’s name, Mom’s bust size, and which sport and/or activity each family member likes best.

How come there isn’t a REAL-life sticker family emblazoned on the back of a ’97 Maxima with 140,000 miles on it, painting the real picture of the true American family? On the right side of the window you have X-wife, Jimmy, Sally, My Old House, X’s Lawyer … and on the left side of the window you have Dad, New Girlfriend, Debt Collector, Therapist. Screw this happy-time-baseball-ballet-Disneyland-balloon-holding-not-the-norm-pretend-adhesive-nuclear family, I want to see Crazy Cat Lady with six cats in descending order by name alphabetically from left to right. Let’s go back to the days of Calvin pissing on everything, a Save the Whales bumper sticker, or even a g’damn Baby on Board warning placard complete with suction cup.

Oh good, the light is green. Please get this sticker oppression off of me, it’s too much to bear on a long tedious commute. Another red light. WHAT?!? An “Alumni License Plate”?

Look at ’em, staring at me while I sit at this eternal red light, where eternal is roughly one minute and 13 seconds. They’re all perfect and happy and … not obese. Where do they come from? Why do they exist? Where in the hell do you purchase them? The most logical explanation would be from an auto parts store or a flea market, but I’m going to guess that perhaps some families hand craft them on “family fun night” with x-acto knives and some silly sticker stencils while drinking Sprite and eating those soft white cookies with the frosting on top, laughing and giggling and hugging.

We are bombarded by these monstrosities of suburbanite’ish absurdity on a daily basis (on commutes, passing a church, mall parking lots). It’s as if these horrid decals just appear on cars out of nowhere. Who are applying these things? Have you ever seen somebody applying Mom, Dad, Sis, Slugger and the g’damn family dog to the back window of their minivan? No you haven’t. Nobody has. And if you are one of the unfortunates who have witnessed it, then shame on you for not immediately slapping Dad in the back of the head and yelling “Good God man! Look what you’re doing!”. We don’t see these being applied in the light of day because they’re done in back alleys at dusk, and inside garages of shame with one’s self worth slowly melting away like a soft serve in the hands of a 3 year old during summer.

The one’s that make absolutely no sense are the sticker families with the children’s name on them. “Hey, thanks” says the child abductor who now knows the age, rank, and serial number of each child he/she plans on luring into a Van Full of Candy, not to mention the dog’s name, Mom’s bust size, and which sport and/or activity each family member likes best.

How come there isn’t a REAL-life sticker family emblazoned on the back of a ’97 Maxima with 140,000 miles on it, painting the real picture of the true American family? On the right side of the window you have X-wife, Jimmy, Sally, My Old House, X’s Lawyer … and on the left side of the window you have Dad, New Girlfriend, Debt Collector, Therapist. Screw this happy-time-baseball-ballet-Disneyland-balloon-holding-not-the-norm-pretend-adhesive-nuclear family, I want to see Crazy Cat Lady with six cats in descending order by name alphabetically from left to right. Let’s go back to the days of Calvin pissing on everything, a Save the Whales bumper sticker, or even a g’damn Baby on Board warning placard complete with suction cup.

Oh good, the light is green. Please get this sticker oppression off of me, it’s too much to bear on a long tedious commute. Another red light. WHAT?!? An “Alumni License Plate”?

You haven’t died from Polio, and through the miracle of modern technology, that bowling trophy’s broken arm was safely rescued from deep within my “fun house”. But aside from that, what has science done for any of us? For every life saving vaccine or highly specialized rectal jaws of life that science accidentally discovers, there are a bahundred other studies on the effectiveness of aromatherapy on the recently dead, 30,000 different pee pee don’t work pills or the twisted race to see how many human eyelids science can grow on the back of a mouse. Really, most of science is just fucking with mice.

Last week science descended from its floating sky fortress on a hover board powered by screaming insanity to deliver unto us their recent findings. Among them were (and I am making none of these up) that women’s tears make men less sexually aroused, proof of the existence of ESP and that humans first started wearing clothes about 170,000 years ago. Most scientific discovery is like a Christmas sweater with no arm holes from a relative that you barely know. Thanks science, now what the fuck am I supposed to do with this?

So hot... But science says no.

Israeli researchers published a study in which they presented men with a jar containing tears collected from women who had watched a sad movie and discovered that the men who sniffed the tear jar were less likely to find photographs of women attractive. This is the kind of thing that normal people just kind of understand but that science just has to do anyway. If anyone who didn’t own a long white coat said, “I wish to collect the tears of weeping maidens! Deliver to me my cleanest specimen jar and my Blu-Ray copy of the extended extra weepy directors cut of ‘Beaches’ this instant!” they would immediately become a person of interest in more than three hundred currently ongoing sex crime investigations. But if scienceologists want to make someone cry to prove that boners hate that, they get trucks full of money backed up to their money door. I don’t think it’s really any secret that it’s hard for most to maintain an errection in the presence of a crying woman; that’s the precise reason why my professional rapism career was cut so tragically and prematurely short.

Occasionally science likes to fuck with other science. It’s like when the french horn player in the high school marching band steals the star mathelete’s lucky protractor. Sure, it’s funny, but there are no winners there. Every once in a while someone will publish a paper saying that there is strong evidence linking wishes to the disappearance of the purple footed polar snow lizard or how the sky is always on fire until someone looks up, just to see if anyone is paying attention. Then everyone loses their shit at how preposterous these findings are because everyone knows that the purple footed polar snow lizard’s extinction was a direct result of their own gross mismanagement of the tides. So when a study presenting “strong evidence” of ESP is published in a “well respected” scientific journal I assume it’s President Science sending up a crazy balloon just to see who’ll look up and proclaim that the balloon is standing perfectly still and that the planet is in fact, slowly backing away from it.

What I enjoy most about science and scienceers. is their zealously religious belief that all that they know and understand is all that there is to know and understand. Now, I’m not saying that ESP is real, but I’m at least open to the idea that anything’s possible, you know, like science used to be. But any time someone suggests something new, science will yell and cry about how this thing is impossible and how preposterous this new idea is, until it’s proven correct, at which point this new truth is then protected from future heresy. Olden time scientographers believed completely that the world was flat and that the edge was protected by space dragons who would gobble your ship up whole to keep you from bumping into the hole punched velvet curtain of the night sky until someone went out there and to their surprise didn’t find a single dragon; or so history book writers would have you believe!

These little perverts saw your grandpa naked!

Then there are “discoveries” that really do nothing for anyone and are just important to people who specialize in the publication of books never meant to be read. One such new study, FOLLOWING THE EVOLUTION OF LICE, suggests that head lice evolved into clothing or body lice approximately 170,000 years ago suggesting that humans began wearing clothes after the second to last ice age. Science, why are you studying the evolution of lice? Do you know something you’re not telling us? And why do we need to know exactly when our ancestors developed to ability to be ashamed of their bodies?

Don’t you understand what you’ve done science? Being a long-standing opponent of clothing, you have only served to aide me in my never-ending quest for the over throw of the textile oppression. I now have the exact (approximate) co-ordinates to set my time machine (when you accidentally invent one while trying to create a box that more efficiently extracts sorrow tears) and stop my monkey uncles from first covering their cave balls in shame. Of course that will probably lead to them freezing to death in the LAST ice age, making me less chronologically viable than a stupid tide neglecting snow lizard, but at least it would kill science with me, which would serve it right.

Way to go science, now get back to me when you’ve cloned another pig uterus for no damned good reason.

Well hello, I … didn’t see you standing there. I was just enjoying the latest episode of Survivor, hands-free. Wait, I can’t hear you, let me take these ‘Beats’ by Dr. Dre headphones off. Hi. Oh this? Yeah, isn’t it great? It’s called a Vyne, but I like to call it Python. No don’t be afraid of it, it’s not real. Haha yeah I know … it IS scary. So, you like snakes? Nevermind.

The thing I like best about this cool little jimmy-thang, besides the obvious conversation-starting-lady-magnetism, is that when I’m sporting it, I have an actual “personal-space-creator”, yeah I know right? And it’s a great back-scratcher. Oh wait, check this trick out … when I gyrate my neck, whoa yeah, oh look out, it’s like a reptilian hula-hoop. And if I ever drop my keys down a storm drain, I’m totally set. Hmm, maybe I’ll try that today just to make sure.

So, you want a ride? You can straddle it right here, facing me is best, and I’ll just carry you wherever you … No? Ok, no problem. Where you going? Hey wait, look, my download of The Bachelor just completed. You could come stand next to me and watch it … I’ll share my headphones.

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And nobody’s gonna stop it. We’ll be speeding through your neighborhoods with blogs and videos and all kinds of nonsense that only a Van Full of Candy can provide. So please be patient while we fill up the tank and get ready for this road trip.

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Tell your peeps about us:

Like this:

And nobody’s gonna stop it. We’ll be speeding through your neighborhoods with blogs and videos and all kinds of nonsense that only a Van Full of Candy can provide. So please be patient while we fill up the tank and get ready for this road trip.

Rate this:

Tell your peeps about us:

Like this:

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WARNING:

Van Full of Candy only encourages you to climb aboard metaphorical vans for the sole purpose of humorous content. Any embarking upon physical vans, existing in a three dimensional space is to be done with the foreknowledge that you will almost certainly be molested therein. But if that's your thing, enjoy the ride...